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“You okay?” are the first words to fly out of Demyen’s mouth.
I turn to him and offer a sheepish smile. “You stood up for me. Like, really, truly stood up for me. I… No one’s ever really…” I sigh. “Thank you.”
He cups my face in his hand and holds me there so I have no choice but to look him in the eyes. “I told you, Clara: I’m going to make this right. I’m going to makeeverythingright. You’re safe with me and I am never going to let him or anyone else lay a finger on you, on Willow… No one.” He glances over his shoulder toward where Pavel had been wheeled away for surgery. “I can’t claim perfection, and I’ve definitely made a mess before. But…” He turns back to me and rests his brow against mine. “I can promise that I will fight for you. Always.”
17
DEMYEN
I told myself I’d get some work done at the office, where it’s quiet and devoid of reminders of everything going on at home. I got here about an hour ago. And since then, all I’ve managed to do is sink three shots of crumpled scrap paper into the wastebasket. The rest of my attempts are scattered around on the floor, as messy as my thoughts.
Pavel pulled through surgery and spent the past few days recovering in his private hospital room, the very best my money could afford. Doctors said he was lucky the bullet missed his major internal organs, but they still had to stitch some important pieces back together and make sure any and all bullet fragments were removed.
Once he was awake and alert enough to tell me what happened, I wanted to hug him and kick his bed over at the same time.
Was he directly shot? No. He’s never that clumsy or unaware.
Was it a bullet that ricocheted off the HVAC while he lowered Willow into that tiny space? It sure was. Lady Luck despises noble sacrifices, apparently.
Does he feel stupid about it? More than a little bit.
We still don’t know exactly why Raizo’s men shot up Willow’s school. It’s such a risky move for a traditionally cunning, careful man. Pavel is certain they were after Willow specifically, but again, it doesn’t make sense for them to risk harming her by shooting so close. What does injuring or killing an innocent little girl accomplish?
One thing Raizodidmanage to accomplish is deeply traumatizing her. That pisses me off more than anything. She’s physically unharmed, but what that asshole did to her mind is enough to make me want to burn his entire organization to ash.
I’ve seen grown men get shell-shocked from their first violent skirmish. It takes a few days to shake it off. Bloodshed has a way of lingering in your memory. Eventually, though, most men recover and bounce back ready for the next fight.
None of them are five years old, though.
Willow and her classmates are far too young to witness such atrocities or experience such deep-seated fear. So her version of shell-shock is darker. Deeper. The light is gone from her eyes. She no longer wants to do our crossword puzzle at breakfast. She barely eats. She hasn’t spoken a single word.
I grab my phone and do a cursory search for trauma therapists in the area. While I’m at it, I should find a separate trauma therapist for Clara. She’s been championing through for Willow’s sake, but there’s no missing the subtle cues that she’s hanging on by threads.
And even though I’m determined to hold her so tight it all heals itself back together, I’m very aware that I’m one of the people who tried to rip her apart.
I frown at my phone. “Family counseling” shows up at the top of the search results.
Do we need family counseling?
Are we… a family?
Truth is, I’m fucking terrified to say yes. I’m terrified that the moment I accept it and envelop myself in the one thing I’ve always wanted and never believed I deserved, I’ll do something to fuck it up.
Like Martin did.
Who, think of the devil, is waltzing his smug ass right through the front doors of my casino like he fucking owns the place. A text from one of the concierges drops down on my phone screen alerting me to the asshole’s presence and?—
You know what? I’m good with this. I’mhappyhe’s here.
I’ve been needing an excuse to hurt someone.
It’s tempting to turn him away, but it’s even more tempting to allow him into my casino and straight up to my office—which is, according to the concierge texting me, where he’s demanding to go—so we can get a few things clarified.
If that clarification involves me throwing him through the plate-glass window onto the main floor, then arrest me for assault.
I do not give a flying fuck.
The few minutes it takes Martin to ride the elevator up to my floor feel like an eternity. It’s plenty of time, though, for me to drum up several different ways I can eject him from my office once he starts pissing me off.
